


The price of freedom

by ForErusSake



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Coping, Coronation, Post-Rescue from Thangorodrim, Tears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-04-06 15:18:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14059773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForErusSake/pseuds/ForErusSake
Summary: After his rescue from Thangorodrim Maedhros tries to find a way to move on, but things have changed, he has changed. Fingon may have gotten him down from that mountain, but he will never be truly free, and he knows it. He has come to understand that his freedom has a price that cannot be paid, and that kingship is nothing more than thralldom.





	The price of freedom

**Author's Note:**

> Written for (and on) the first day of Fëanorianweek 2018.

He couldn’t feel the pain anymore. Not really.

Of course it had hurt in the moment. When the knife sliced through skin, and tendons, and arteries, then sawed through bone, it hurt, but it was merely a dull ache in comparison to the claws of Angband’s monstrous wolves, dripping with burning venom, or the fiery whip of Gothmog, Lord of Balrogs, or the cold stare of The Abhorred, as he’d started calling Morgoth’s Lieutenant, and his too sweet voice tearing at his mind

After thirty years of torture, his best friend cutting off his right hand was barely noteworthy.

He was free.

Or so they thought.

But when he first awoke from the semi-peaceful haze of unconsciousness, the last true rest he would get in a long time, and his brother went to his knees at his bedside and offered him the crown of the Noldor, the same crown which had graced his grandfather’s head when he fought and died in the courtyard at Formenos, the same crown his father had worn when he marched into Alqualondë, and later when his body burnt to ashes as his spirit finally broke free of its cage of flesh and bone, the crown Kánafinwë had worn in his absence, expecting to have to keep wearing it for the rest of his life, Nelyafinwë Maitimo Fëanárion had known that he would never be free again.

He had looked his brother in the eyes, only barely registering the burning regret in the younger Elf’s gaze, and he had shook his head, the motion almost mechanical, _not yet, I am not ready_. Averting his eyes, letting his gaze rest on his rescuer, he didn’t see the soft, pained smile that pulled at the corners of Makalaurë’s lips, _will you ever be?_

He would joke about it afterwards. He would tell them about his ‘stay’ in Angband as if he’d merely visited the Dark Lord to discuss the weather over a nice cup of tea.

Everyone laughed at his jokes. No one meant it.

Everyone knew he didn’t sleep, for fear of the nightmares that would plague his slumber. Everyone could see the scars on his face and arms that told the story he refused to tell with words. Everyone could hear the rasp in his voice, the only evidence of nights spent sitting in the dark, stifling the sobs that wracked his body when the pain he hid during the day finally caught up with him.

Everyone knew, and yet no one dared to ask him, not even his brothers, not even Findekáno, and that hurt perhaps even more than the aching stiffness in his joints, the stinging pains that shot through his arm at unexpected motions, and the constant throbbing in his skull.

Findekáno sat with him the most. His cousin sat by his bedside and told him of the things that had happened in his absence, of the lands he had spent exploring, of the stars, which seemed to shine less bright now that Isil had joined them in the heavens, but nevertheless were more beautiful than anything else he had ever seen. Findekáno told him inconsequential things, trivialities about the landscape, the story of Tyelkormo’s first hunt in these new lands, and how Irissë had pushed him into Lake Mithrim once. He never told him where Arakáno had gone, or how Makalaurë had ruled in his absence, or how uncle Nolofinwë had taken the news of Fëanáro’s death. He never told him about the Helcaraxë. 

It was Makalaurë who sat by him late at night, a rare occurrence - they had grown apart, though Nelyafinwë was never sure how that had happened, or why his brother seemed to jump at his every motion, clutching his own right arm close to his chest, a memory of pain and fear flashing in his eyes, as if he remembered something that had transpired between them that Maitimo couldn’t – it was Makalaurë who told him about the Grinding Ice, about the gruelling journey their uncle and cousins had made to follow them to these lands, about Elenwë’s death by water, and Arakáno’s death by orc-blade. It was Makalaurë, his body stiff and his formerly soft, comforting voice gone cold, who held him through his tears that night.

His brother never pressured him, never asked him, he was never impatient, but he could see it in the eyes of everyone who looked at him. They were waiting, waiting for him to make the first move. He knew that Makalaurë hated the crown, loathed his duty as leader of their people, but he knew that he wasn’t ready to bear its burden, _not yet._

He spoke to Makalaurë first. He asked him veiled questions about his rule. He now vaguely remembered they had had a falling-out over this exact subject before, and he could guess his brother’s arm had something to do with it. He didn’t ask, his brother didn’t tell.

They spoke deep into the night about the burden of kingship, about the weight of the crown, about freedom.

“I don’t want this anymore, Maitimo,” Makalaurë said, his voice retaining just a little bit of that warmth he remembered from their youth in Valinor, “take it from me, it is yours by right of birth, not mine.”

Again, Nelyafinwë noticed the slight wince as his brother unconsciously grabbed his own arm, and he noticed how he called him Maitimo, no longer Nelyafinwë, but not yet Nelyo, and he sighed.

He would never be free.

He had lost his freedom when he was captured and brought to Angband.

No, when he swore the Oath and later when he stabbed his sword into an innocent sailor’s chest.

He would never be free, _but Makalaurë could still be._

He didn’t notice the silent tears in his brother’s eyes, _can I?_

He didn’t explain his intentions, Makalaurë would understand, Káno would understand.

When the following day he stood before his brother’s throne, the others standing around them, and Makalaurë offered him the crown again, he nodded. But instead of kneeling and allowing his brother to place it upon his head, he gently took it from his hands, turned around and held it out to his uncle.

Nolofinwë’s eyes went wide, confused, questioning. He nodded again, and Nolofinwë kneeled.

As he lowered the crown of the Noldor onto his uncle’s head he closed his eyes.

He could hear Makalaurë’s soft sobs behind him, but he himself didn’t cry.

Káno was free.

Or so he thought.

When his uncle stood and turned towards his people, confusion on his face turned into pride, Nelyafinwë smiled.

Nolofinwë didn’t yet understand. He didn’t understand the meaning of kingship, the importance and the sweetness of freedom. Soon he would understand, and he would wish he had never accepted Maitimo’s offer.

As he stared into the distance Nelyafinwë couldn’t help but wonder if this was how it was always meant to go. One person’s freedom for another’s.

As he stared into the distance he knew it was. That is why he would never be free, because his freedom had not been traded for another’s, and so he was trapped.

He was trapped, bound in a cage, still shackled to that mountain, but it didn’t matter, because he couldn’t feel the pain anymore, not really.

He remembered what he had given up, the knife roughly sawing through the skin, the tendons, the arteries, and the bone of his wrist, and he knew that he would keep fighting for his freedom, even if there was no hope.

He had thought it didn’t hurt anymore, but it did.

The loss of his freedom hurt more than all of his torture.

Behind him he heard that Makalaurë had silenced his sobs.

Nelyafinwë Maitimo Fëanárion looked out in front of him, and hot tears ran down his cheeks.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Reviews are always appreciated :)


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